4

Rome: 9:42 a.m.

Across the city, the morning sun shone a golden light through the office window of an underpaid, aging professor by the name of Salvatore Tosi. The light shimmered across leather book spines, custom-made picture frames and the surroundings of a man who had less than ten minutes to live.

The two figures that had walked into Tosi’s office a few minutes before, unannounced and most certainly unwelcome, knew that this morning’s death was to be the first of many. Death came to every man—that could not be changed. They simply helped it along, when required. It was necessary work, sacred in its own way, and they undertook it with devotion.

This morning’s task had come upon them suddenly, the scope of their commissioned work potentially extensive, though they knew neither its full contours nor its intended ends. They rarely did—they were passed solely the data they needed to get the job done.

It was background work, they’d been informed, to ensure “the advent of a miracle.”

“We’ve told you already,” one of the figures said to the trembling Salvatore, now tied fast to his wooden chair, “that your silence will bring only torment. Tell us what you know. Everything you were planning to use to expose the Messiah.” It was a strange term to use, but they’d been told that was the image at play. “The quicker you tell us what you know, the less painful this will be.”

Salvatore’s bound wrists were already bleeding. Sweat soaked the skinny middle-aged man’s armpits, tears stinging his vision as his attention moved back and forth between the two intruders. Their strange calmness was designed to upset him and was having its intended effect.

“I’ve told you before, I know nothing!” he cried, spittle streaming from his mouth as the panicked words escaped his throat. “I don’t know why you’ve come to me!”

“Lies, Salvatore, will get you nowhere. They will merely bring you more pain. Only the truth can set you free.”

Salvatore blanched. “I’m not lying! I don’t know your ‘Messiah.’ I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please!”

“If you won’t cooperate, then this is going to have to be . . . difficult,” the second figure answered. The gleam in his eye suggested that this did not disappoint him.

Salvatore pleaded. “Tell me what you want. I can help you. Maybe I can give you something!” He waved his head desperately at the surroundings of his office. The small academic chamber was filled with a collection of artifacts that looked to be worth a decent sum—the accumulated trappings of a moderately successful professional life. Some small, apparently ancient statuary. Carved figurines. A few examples of original artwork.

The two intruders’ stoic calm persisted. It was clear they were not interested in his trinkets.

“Who are you?” Salvatore asked, his terror now complete.

“You’d be surprised how many people ask that question,” the first intruder answered, “but does it really ever matter? We could be men, or demons, or angels. Is there any answer that would comfort you?” There was a slight twist at the edge of his lips. Was it a smile? Did men such as this smile? “I can tell you,” he added wryly, “it’s never comforted anyone else.”

Salvatore’s expression was panicked, though bitterness crept in at the man’s words. There was a hint of piety in him and these men offended it. He felt his anger growing. “Angels don’t come with ties and threats and . . . knives.” He tried not to stare at the sheathed blade conspicuously present on the left man’s hip.

“I’ve been told they come in many forms.” The response was emotionless. “But I’m no theologian.” The man allowed his eyes to lock with Salvatore’s, transmitting his meaning through the tense space, already filled with the stench of terrified sweat.

Then he broke eye contact, reached down toward the knife and released it from its leather hold.

“But I do like that imagery. Angels, the messengers of God,” he said. “You seem a religious man. Maybe the thought will aid you.” He abruptly took a step closer to the trembling Salvatore, the knife blade coming up to his chest as he leaned in and breathed into his sweat-covered face.

“Because by God, these messengers are going to make you speak.”